


Blood Makes Noise

by wildarcana15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Codependency, Controlling Sam Winchester, Dom Sam Winchester, Don't copy to another site, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Masochism, Obsessive Behavior, POV Sam Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Sadism, Self-Hatred, Serial Killer Sam Winchester, Sexual Tension, Sub Dean Winchester, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-09-19 17:41:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17006181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildarcana15/pseuds/wildarcana15
Summary: Sam feels like he’s a hurricane. There’s the chaos of his dark, twisted needs, and the eye of the storm, the calm that keeps the rest from tearing a swathe of destruction through the world. Usually, the calm wins. He smiles with his dimples and his warm eyes and people melt for him, give in to his sway so easily it thrills him every time.Sometimes, he wants more than what such simple, subtle manipulation can give.





	1. Eleven

Sam feels like he’s a hurricane. There’s the chaos of his dark, twisted needs, and the eye of the storm, the calm that keeps the rest from tearing a swathe of destruction through the world. Usually, the calm wins. He smiles with his dimples and his warm eyes and people melt for him, give in to his sway so easily it thrills him every time.

Sometimes, he wants more than what such simple, subtle manipulation can give.

Ultimately, he knows what it comes down to. They covered parts of it in school - or rather it was in the textbooks, because his teachers are sparse and varied, travelling as they do. 

He’s an addict.

He’s surprisingly sanguine about it.

Giving in to the maelstrom inside him seems inevitable, but he’s always been a sucker for a lost cause. It runs in the family.

He has a system to handle it, and it’s working so far. He figures it’s like a pressure cooker (not that he’s ever allowed to use one, because according to Dean he burns water when he tries to cook). He cautiously nudges the lid off every so often, to let some escape in a controlled way. This in turn prevents the true explosion that might occur if he lets it build up for too long. 

That’s the theory; in practise he’s finding that it only works to a point. The gaps between each vent are decreasing, and he’s starting to need more out of each hit.

Like any addict, his body is adjusting to what he’s giving it, and demanding more for the same pressure-release.

It’s an exercise in futility, but he keeps going nevertheless. Stringing out the days he can spend passing as normal, because he even scares himself sometimes, and he doesn’t want to lose Dean as well as himself to this darkness inside him. Seeing Dean look at him with hatred in his eyes would be too much to bear - not just in his moments of lucidity, but even when he’s consumed with need. He always wants to seem good, to his big brother. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t want to lose Dean’s love and care. Even if it’s not the kind he feels.

He’s lucky, in a way. Their lifestyle holds a lot of excellent opportunities for violence, even though he’s young. He’s sure most other eleven year olds don’t fantasize about blood and blades, or their brothers. He’s never been one of the crowd.

So far, he’s killed seventeen monsters, and managed to sneak away to torture three. Strangely, it’s the torture that is the escalation for him. He’s read that it’s usually the other way around, kids torturing animals and working up to humans. He’s different, which makes him smirk a little, because of course he is. He’s in a world with monsters, that well over half the population know nothing about. Most humans are small and petty and ignorant to him, sure. But they’re so irrelevant, when there are such prime, logical, and deliciously vicious victims laid out for him on a silver platter. 

He sometimes wonders what John would do if he realised his youngest son would carve into a human just as readily as he would a monster. That the rush of the kill wasn’t enough for him, that he wanted more, wanted blood and fear and above all else, power.

He’s not like Dean. Dean seems to actually care; he wants to help people, save them from evil. It’s the height of irony to him, that those same people distrust Dean’s truths and blindly believe Sam’s lies. It hurts Dean, the way people treat him. 

It’s fascinating, because hurt Dean is so much the same as normal Dean, except for a slight shadow in his eyes. He flinches away from people, sometimes. He’s fifteen, and he glares and blusters and postures like he’s showing off for the world, but an ill-timed movement or poorly-spoken phrase, and he’s a terrified kid for the fraction of a second it takes for him to reassert his self-control.

Sam logs each incident carefully. A plate smashes in the canteen at school, and Dean stands up, chair scraping loudly. He covers himself by playing the gallant knight and helping the girl who dropped her dinner with a roguish wink, but Sam sees it. That shadow, lurking. Slowly consuming his brother from the inside out. Sam is going to find out what it is if he has to kill the whole world to do it.

He’s not stupid; he knows it’s got to be something to do with John. It always is, with Dean. But he is still only eleven; a fact he feels keenly every time he tries to gain more power and agency. He gets a long way by smiling sweetly and keeping a sharp knife in his pocket. But never far enough.

He knows with clarity that he’s obsessing over this. He has been for years; since he was old enough to notice when Dean was hiding something. He’s as obsessed with Dean as he is with the chaos in his blood. Two opposing forces slowly tearing him apart; his need to know Dean completely, and his need for violence. For now, at least, Dean is still the larger force to him.


	2. Twelve

When he’s twelve, he’s killed ten more monsters and tortured six of them. He’s forgotten what half of them even were.

The eleventh kill, though, is seared into his mind.

It’s a vampire, which is always an ugly kill, and he looks forward to those types the most. John’s round back taking on the lead vamps, and Sam’s left to follow Dean to take out the lackeys on the sidelines. He grips his machete comfortably, enjoying the weight of it tugging at his muscles. There are two lackeys, and Sam gets to watch as Dean gets the drop on the first, painting the grass with blood. 

The other vamp turns with a snarl, and Sam starts forwards, but Dean seems to know exactly what Sam is thinking and uses one hand to tell Sam to stay back, while the other shoves the creature off-course.

Dean’s beautiful when he fights. He’s tall already, and broad-shouldered. All the kids at school admire him, and it doesn’t make Sam feel an inch of jealousy because none of them get to see Dean like this. His movements are swift, deft with years of practise and firmed by muscle born of work rather than vanity. He can see Dean’s movements play under his t-shirt.

The lights by the barn the vamps have claimed are harsh, glaring, and they cast deep shadows across Dean’s features as he grapples with the vampire. Eventually, Dean twists so he has one arm around the creature’s neck in a chokehold, then grips it’s hair with his free hand and kicks it’s legs from under him. The creature buckles and Dean presses his knee into it’s back, arcing it until it’s forced to be still or be paralysed. 

Dean tugs at it’s hair again, it’s chin sweeping upward to expose it’s pale neck. He’s breathing hard, a stark contrast to the vampire he’s caught. His chest is heaving, his breaths coming in gasps that have Sam unconsciously licking his lips. Their eyes catch as Dean nods, and Sam can’t tear his gaze from his brother’s as he walks calmly forward.

This is his time. One of those moments where he gets to open the lid to his darkness and let it out, because this type of violence is allowed. This is killing monsters, not humans. He’s allowed to enjoy killing those.

He drags his eyes from Dean’s, taking in the vampire he gets to kill. It’s taken over the body of a man who has tattoos twining delicately up his neck and around his hands. Sam takes the sharp edge of the machete and traces it down the vampire’s throat slowly, revelling in the way it tries to flinch and is held fast by Dean’s strength. When the blade hits the base of its throat, he lets it bite into the flesh, moves further down so he’s cutting through it’s top easily until the cut reaches the creature’s sternum. 

Sam represses a grin as he draws away the knife, grabs the parts of the shirt that aren’t slick with vampire blood - he’s violent but he’s not stupid and he doesn’t want to be a mindless vampire - and tears it, exposing the tattoos. He twirls the blade in his hand and then uses it to carve out the broad strokes of the tattoo on the man’s chest. It’s a large, detailed piece of roses, which pleases him. The red blood beads over the while petals on the man’s skin. Again, he has to suppress a smile; he’s painting the roses red. 

It comes out in a slight smirk anyway, and he hears Dean, distantly.

“Fuck.”   
  
Sam flicks his gaze up, still caught in the trails of red.

Dean’s got dirt on his jaw and grass-stains on his t-shirt, and his treasured leather jacket is still a little oversized. His bottom lip is almost red in the harsh lighting, and Sam watches, attention thoroughly redirected by the flicker of Dean’s tongue across his lips. Most importantly, he notices that Dean’s green eyes are almost completely eclipsed by black pupil.

Sam doesn’t even have to think, intuition guiding him as he presses the flat of the blade to the vampire’s throat and lets the emotions burning and rioting inside him show on his face.

Sam grins, wide and vicious.

Dean stares, licks his lips infuriatingly.

Sam lets the edge of the blade nick the vampire’s flesh.

Dean exhales, loudly, something in his eyes almost pleading.

Sam goes in for the kill. He lets his hand brush over Dean’s as he grips the vampire’s hair himself for leverage, and Dean’s fingers twitch before surrendering custody of the head to Sam. 

He decapitates it in one clean sweep. He lifts the head and tosses it aside, and Dean lets him, the body falling to the side, ignored by both of them.

Dean’s almost more of a wreck now than he was after fighting the thing. He’s got a smudge of blood on his cheek, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed. He’s still staring at Sam, and it’s nothing like Sam feared it would be if he let his mask go. He’d expected hatred, fear, horror. Instead, he’s getting a vulnerable, open need that boils his blood in his veins, sublimating him utterly.

“Sammy-” Dean’s voice is low and rough, and Sam abruptly realises that he’s hard. There’s a dead vampire somewhere on the ground between them, and Dean’s looking at him like he’s lost and Sam’s the only thing keeping him safe. Sam uses his fist, still clenched around the machete, to push Dean back. Dean goes with it, just moves for Sam like the light pressure on his chest is an order, and the fire doesn’t just burn, it  _ incinerates _ him with want.

Sam feels wild with it, directionless. He knows how it’s meant to work, with some part of his brain, but the rest of him is screaming with conflicting urges and emotions, desire to watch Dean weaken and whimper and give against him, but also a fierce feeling of possession and protection that threatens to overwhelm him. He’s not sure what he’s going to do, or how. His mind is wiped to instinct with Dean so yielding and pliant for him.

“Report, boys?”   
  
John’s voice snaps Sam back to reality, Dean blinking slightly dazedly as Sam backs off rapidly.

“Yeah, Dad. We’re done here.” Sam says, because Dean’s not looking like he’s going to be able to speak any time soon. “Dean hit his head a bit. Might have a mild concussion, but we’re good other than that.”

John emerges from the door to the barn, wiping his machete on his jeans.

“No need for a hospital, then. Keep an eye on your brother on the way home, will you?” John’s brusque manner grates, the casual way he throws around orders, so used to being obeyed.

Sam takes Dean’s hand and follows John to the car. Dean’s fixated on their hands, lets Sam remove the machete from his belt without a struggle, just compliance and another soft sigh.

“You good, kid?” John doesn’t sound that interested in the answer, but at least he’s checking in with them for once.

“Yeah.” Sam watches as Dean struggles to reassert his usual demeanour, and strokes his thumb gently over the back of Dean’s hand, and hears Dean’s breath stutter in response. Sam smirks. “Yeah, I’m good.”


	3. Thirteen

Sam usually hates having to come up with gift ideas. He’s good at it, when he doesn’t have to be himself about it. Some girl from school? Find her favourite brand of makeup or stationary and he’s very likely to get a kiss out of it. Teacher? They are suckers for anything suitably admiring, sweet and apple-themed.

Dean, though, is tricky. There’s what Sam wants for Dean, and what Dean wants for Dean, and those two only tend to align when they’re hunting together, or when Dean is hurting and Sam gets to hug him while he pretends he isn’t crying. He’s gorgeous, in hunting and in hurting, and what Sam wants to give Dean is tangled into a firestorm of pain and pleasure and possession. 

But he knows Dean would only accept these things in the heat of the moment, like he has done in the past. The moments when they make eye contact over a kill, when Sam lets his mask slip. Or when Sam notices the shadow deepening and reinforcing its grip on Dean and he clings to his brother, toes the line of acceptable closeness and burrows his fingers into Dean’s hair and grips tight and feels Dean slowly relax and let himself shatter into something vulnerable and beautiful. Just for Sam.

He loves that he’s the only one who sees past Dean’s mask, and Dean’s the only one who sees past his. That feeling of being known, and of getting to know something of Dean that others don’t, is almost as addictive as power. It’s a type of power all on its own, to Sam. He knows how to gently nudge Dean into giving in, and he knows exactly how far and often he can push it before Dean gets pissed at him and it stops working.

So getting Dean something Sam wants for him is impossible. Getting Dean something he wants for himself, that would be a challenge, but it’s more likely to be accepted and so Sam decides that’s what he’ll do.

He settles on a pretty knife, orders it to the local branch of the regular hunting store near their current motel after he’s smoked a cigarette to make his voice deeper. He gets a text when the thing’s in the store, and he waits until John’s in an alcohol-coma and Dean’s nowhere to be seen. He sneaks out, hoodie covering his face as he cuts the fuses and lets himself in. He takes the knife, and composes a suitably outraged text for him to send tomorrow when the theft hits the news and he “withdraws his business”. He figures the owner will be so glad he doesn’t have to tell him the knife was stolen, that he won’t be too bothered about losing a customer.

He tucks the knife, neatly packaged, into his hoodie pocket, and reaches for the door. He hears footsteps behind him, and he freezes, turns with a fist raised ready to defend himself. His fist is caught by a familiar hand, and Sam twists out of Dean’s grip more because he can than because he actually needs to do so.

“What the hell, Dean? You can’t just sneak up on me like that!” Sam hisses the words, aware that if they’re too loud they might wake someone up.

“I’m not the only one sneaking, huh, Sammy?” Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam, disapproving as only an older brother can be. Sam fights the laugh building up in him and rolls his eyes.

“Can’t I go out to smoke?” He takes the pack out of his jeans and spares a moment to be glad he’s smoked one earlier in the week, because he kind of hates cigarettes.

“No!” Dean looks actually angry now, and it’s not doing anything to embed the lesson he thinks he’s meant to be learning, because seeing Dean angry is more like a reward than anything else. Dean snatches the pack from Sam, and glares. “This shit ain’t good for you, Sammy. The hell are you thinking, man?”

Sam considers jumping to grab the smokes, but it would make too much noise and it might reveal the knife in his pocket, so he just pouts and makes grabby-hands at the packet until Dean tucks it into his jacket pocket.

“Maybe I was thinking of how I want to be more grown up.” He mumbles, shading a touch of mutinous sulking into his voice. It’s not even entirely a lie, which gives it more weight. He does want to be more grown up. He wants to be old enough to understand the shadow eating at Dean, and he wants to be old enough for Dean to start seeing him properly, rather than in the bursts of need he does right now. 

He wants so many things that seem inextricably linked to adulthood. And even without the four years between them, something about Dean has always been older than Sam is. Dean at thirteen was nothing like Sam is now. Sam remembers thirteen-year-old Dean going out for hours with nobody to berate him, returning shrouded in shadow and brandishing pizza Sam’s pretty sure he stole.

“Sammy, you’re thirteen. Wanting to be more grown up is par for the course. But you should be enjoying getting to do stupid shit, like pulling punk-ass stunts on bikes and trying to get more kisses than you can count on one hand.” Dean’s smiling, but it’s shadowed, and Sam knows abruptly that part of the shadow that eclipses Dean sometimes is that Dean never got those exact things. He can’t sift through that knowledge right now though, so he shrugs.

“We’re hunters, Dean. We don’t get to do the same stupid shit as other kids do.” He watches carefully, and Dean’s slight look of relief tells him that this is not all there is to the shadow, this is just a fractional aspect of something much, much bigger. “Maybe I know doing this is stupid. Maybe I just want some way to not have to do what I’m supposed to all the time. Maybe sometimes I get sick of being so small and helpless, ever think of that?”

“You’re small, sure. But-” Dean moves to ruffle Sam’s hair, and Sam automatically blocks the reach. “See? Far from helpless.”

Sam reluctantly grins back at Dean. Even if this wasn’t the plan, even if he’s telling Dean about thoughts he’s had which he barely even acknowledges to himself. It’s still him and Dean. It’s still his brother and his habit of using action to demonstrate his words because Dean seems to feel like words mean less than action. It’s something that’s close to genuine normality, and for once Sam doesn’t quite manage to disdain it.

By unspoken agreement, they both sit down, backs to the door.

“What were you really doing, Sammy?” Dean’s question takes him by surprise.

“What? Smoking. I told you!” Sam glares at Dean. He’d thought the excuse through. It was something Dean had literally done as a kid himself. Why was it so hard to believe?

“Kid. You pick vegetables as a pizza topping. You have voluntarily requested and eaten salad. And whenever I smoke, you look like you want to punch me in the face for endangering my health. It’s not rocket science to know you got the pack as a handy excuse, and threw out one of the smokes to make it believable.” Dean pats his shoulder consolingly.

“I did smoke it, I didn’t just throw it out!” Sam protests, indignant at the implication that he couldn’t handle one single cigarette. He’s already frustrated that he forgot how smart Dean is. He usually watches other people get taken aback by Dean figuring them out. He’s not sure he likes being on the receiving end, but it is strangely satisfying to have confirmation that he doesn’t yet know Dean completely. He’s slightly terrified that one day, he’ll know Dean fully and then there will be nothing left for him but his other addiction. He can’t stand the thought of losing Dean to anything, but he’s not sure he’ll manage to keep hold of Dean once he figures him out.

“Yeah? How was it?” Dean’s either unaware of Sam’s worry, or ignoring it. His smile is light and teasing, and it drags Sam out of his preoccupation easily.

“Pretty gross.” He wrinkles his nose for effect, and is vindicated when Dean laughs softly.

“See, shortstack? That’s why you should listen when I tell you what to do.”

“Nah.” Sam looks up at Dean. His brother’s eyes are firmly fixed on him, betraying just a hint of worry, and that ever-present shadow. Sam wants to burn that shadow away. He’ll be pushing it, and he’s risking the package he stole, but he doesn’t care. He looks up at Dean through his lashes, deliberately. “Taking orders is kinda more your thing, isn’t it?”

“Sam, you can’t just say stuff like tha-”

“Shut up, Dean.” Sam says it gently, smiling through it, and Dean falls silent instantly. His green eyes are wide, his big-brother personality starting to tear at the edges.

Sam shifts so he’s kneeling angled towards Dean, his own mask falling away as he takes the hand Dean’s resting on his knee and traces the inside of his wrist with his thumb. He leans forward, twists Dean’s hair in his grip until Dean starts to breathe again, in a weak little gasp that makes Sam need more. He carefully wraps his hand around the wrist he was just stroking, pushes it firmly against the door and uses his full bodyweight to pin it down.

“Sammy!” Dean’s voice is barely audible, just the tiniest whimper, and Sam drinks it in, leans closer so he can hear the quiet little sounds catching in Dean’s throat. “Sammy, please, we’re outside, anyone could see!” His words are spaced out by silent compliance, like every thought takes monumental effort. 

It’s so incredibly sweet that Sam tightens his grip just to hear Dean falter. He’s got tears in his eyes, not quite falling, and he’s still letting Sam do all this. If Dean’s anything like this when Sam figures him out completely, he thinks he won’t ever have to worry about getting bored of him. He’ll crave Dean like this until he day he dies, and then he’ll crave him in Hell.

“I don’t care, Dean.” He croons, almost sings the words, a quick burst of laughter emerging as he buzzes with the power. Dean gets, if possible, more desperate, looks as if he’s trapped between wanting more and wanting to make it stop. Gorgeous.

“I-” Dean can’t seem to form anything further, just stares up at Sam, lips parted, breathing hard.

“What was that?” Sam asks, as if he’s trying to coax out more words, but really he just wants to tease out more slurred incoherence, because Dean like this is intense and overwhelming and he wants everything about it all at once, in a giant tsunami of biting passion. “I didn’t get all of that.” He tugs at Dean’s hair, and he whines softly in the back of his throat.

“No words, huh?” Sam lets go of Dean’s hair and watches as he blinks, revels in how Dean’s free hand twitches as if to reach out and bring back the hold. Just as Dean starts to get his bearings, he pounces, straddling his brother’s legs and grabbing his other wrist, pinning it to the wall as well. Dean gasps sharply, his expression back to dazed and needy, and Sam’s blood rushes with the victory of it.

He realises he wants to kiss Dean, and that they’re both hard, or at least getting there. He wants it, and Dean is right there and giving everything away to him. He leans in until he can taste the warmth of Dean’s breaths.

“I want to kiss you.” Sam’s voice has gotten lower now, and he spares a moment to think that he could have avoided smoking the cigarette if he’d just got a power hit before he spoke on the phone. “I want to hold you down and make you mine.”

Dean twitches forwards, like he wants it just as much as Sam does, and then he freezes. Sam feels Dean’s body shift from giving to fearful, and it’s just as horrible as he’d always thought it would be.

“Sam, no.” Dean’s voice is terrified, and sounds awfully young. “Sam, you can have me and you can own me but you can’t - not like that. You’re too fucking young for that, too young, don’t - please, Sammy. You’re too young.”

Dean’s actually crying, now, distressed and pulling his wrists out of Sam’s grip. He tries to push Sam off him entirely, but Sam gets up instead, tugs at Dean’s jacket until he gets the message and they’re both standing.

Sam waits until Dean’s stable and upright, and then he clings to him, hugs him tighter than is probably comfortable.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I’ll never - I won’t - I don’t want to scare you, or force you, ever.” He squeezes Dean harder still, and almost goes limp with relief when Dean’s arms wrap around him in return. “I’ll wait, I can wait, I’m sorry, please don’t be mad. I just - I want you so bad and I want you but I never, ever want to hurt you that way, I promise I won’t. I promise, Dean. I’m sorry.” Sam’s almost crying himself, now. He’s scared Dean, hurt him in a way Dean didn’t want to be hurt, and it feels more miserable than he’s ever felt.

“It’s okay, Sammy.” Sam feels Dean press a kiss to the top of his head, and for once it doesn’t feel like he’s being babied. It feels necessary, essential to his continued sanity. A reaffirmation of love after it went so badly wrong, after he pushed it too hard too soon. “It’s okay.”

“I got you a knife.” Sam can’t keep this secret anymore. Dean would know he’s hiding something, and it would be too much on the back of whatever this was.

“What?” Dean releases his grip, and Sam shuffles back a bit so he can pull out the box.

“For your birthday.” Sam hands the box over to Dean like it’s an offering. “It’s why I was out here. I got the smokes in case I got caught trying to get it. It was meant to be a surprise.”

“It still can be.” Dean offers the box back, and Sam shakes his head.

“No. I want you to have it now. It’s not like we pay that much attention to birthdays anyway. And it’s probably technically your birthday now. Past midnight, right?” Sam checks his watch. “Yep. It’s three minutes past midnight. Totally counts.”

“If you say so, Sammy.” Dean grins, and tears open the box, unwraps the knife and pulls it from it’s sheath carefully. The blade is strong, sharp, and has some wicked teeth two thirds of the way up it, to ensure maximum damage to vital organs. Dean’s eyeing it like it’s a slice of delicious pie, and Sam lets himself feel just a little smug that he got it right. “Damn, Sammy. Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

Dean pulls him in for a one-armed hug, and Sam nuzzles into his brother’s hold and warmth. He lets go and ruffles Sam’s hair. Sam rolls his eyes, but he’s happy. More than. Because this is partly Dean thanking him, sure. But it’s also Dean demonstrating that they are still okay, they can still hug and fight and touch, even despite what happened earlier.

“Yeah well, I figured it would be something that might actually last. Unlike last time.” Sam brings up the time he (illegally) got Dean a bottle of whiskey, and how Dean then proceeded to drink through most of it in the span of a single week.

“Hey! It’s not my fault, man. It tasted good! If anything, you should think of it as good feedback on the present!” Dean shoved Sam lightly, and they devolve into their usual banter, before heading inside.

It doesn’t occur to Sam that the strength of Dean’s reaction and fear earlier might have something to do with the shadow, until much, much later.


	4. Fourteen

When life feels stable, the need to hurt or kill doesn’t build up as fast for him.

Life’s felt unstable since Dean hit eighteen.

A month in, and Sam’s still not sure what’s going to happen. Every day he wakes up dreading Dean being gone. He starts to sleep in Dean’s bed again, like they don’t usually do unless Dean needs him, and Dean doesn’t question it, but he clearly doesn’t realise it’s because Sam wants to know, wants to be able to feel it if Dean tries to sneak off at night.

The worst part is, Sam’s sure if he hit eighteen, he’d leave. Their life has some perks, mostly the freedom to murder and torture without it seeming too out of the ordinary. But even with those, he’d leave - leave their alcoholic father and dirt-poor surroundings for anything other than what they have now. Dean doesn’t even have that as a lure. His only siren song is saving people, and he could do just as well at that on his own, even if he doesn’t think so.

He can’t lose Dean; without him Sam knows he’ll give in to the need inside him. He’d kill and kill and kill until John saw, and killed him instead. Without Dean, Sam knows his lifespan is limited to the time it takes for him to finally snap completely. Dean’s his only hook, the only thing that keeps him grounded enough to function. With Dean, he has a reason to moderate himself. A reason to not get caught. He needs that - needs Dean - and so he’s living in a state of constant flux that’s rapidly draining his willpower.

He’s just glad he’s allowed to take more active part in hunting now; their last kill had been a werewolf a week ago, and Sam had shot it five times to slow it before letting it die. Before, that would have sated him. Now, he itches with the need for more, because Dean might be leaving and without Dean there is nothing but the power of death and destruction left to him.

He feels rent asunder, his attempts at logic swamped by the indignity of rising hormones and puberty. He’s getting taller and taller by the hour - that’s how Dean puts it, in any case - and his bone-deep want for his brother and for everything else has never felt so sharp than it does now. His voice is cracking and his skin is stretched over his bones so he’s starting to look like a scarecrow, not a boy, and he hates yet again that he isn’t an adult. If he weren’t a teenager, maybe he wouldn’t feel so insecure, so undesirable. 

Because if he’s honest with himself, half the reason he’s scared Dean will leave is because he’s scared he’s not enough to make Dean want to stay. And he knows that he wouldn’t feel like this if he wasn’t so fundamentally at the mercy of his brain chemistry. It’s beyond frustrating to know that he’s being irrational but still feel exactly the same regardless.

He’s not exactly been subtle about his tense attitude, but it’s still a surprise to him that Dean comes to sit with him on the porch of this week’s motel. John’s out drinking, so it’s just Sam and the slight chill, and then Dean folding himself down and setting a beer next to him for them to share.

“Hey.” Sam picks up the beer and takes a sip, pulls a disgusted face at the taste and puts it back on the deck.

“Hey yourself.” Dean’s laughing at him a bit, because the son of a bitch knew Sam hates beer and also knew he’d drink some anyway.

“Jerk.” Sam tries to stay annoyed, but it’s almost impossible when Dean grins at him and nudges their shoulders together.

“Bitch. You know, one day your tastebuds will grow up along with the rest of you, and then you’ll actually like beer. Or at least learn not to drink something you hate.”

“That’s really not how tastebuds work, Dean.” Sam rolls his eyes, but he already feels slightly comforted. Times like this, he can forget that Dean might vanish at any moment.

“Sure it is! You’ll get it once you hit eighteen, kid.” Dean takes a gulp of the beer, and winks at Sam. Sam kind of likes this Dean. This is the Dean who plays at being the older brother, the slightly bad influence, and it’s easy to get caught up in his good-humoured charisma.

“Yeah, well, if you say so then my textbooks  _ must _ be wrong.” Sam shoves at Dean jokingly, and enjoys the way Dean’s arm wraps around his shoulders, drags him to lean into his side. 

Since his voice started dropping, and puberty really began to dig into his body, he’s been unspeakably needy. He feels touch-starved and restless constantly, and it’s miserable unless he’s with Dean. He wants more, he always does, but denial has become something of a familiar taste, and as long as he has something it’s sustainable. So he leans his head on Dean’s shoulder and doesn’t try to lean in more and bite at his bare skin, and it’s almost good enough.

He’s so busy trying not to do anything that would scare Dean, that he doesn’t notice Dean’s other arm until his hand is sliding around his front. He twists into the hold instinctively, and wriggles until he can get his legs slung over Dean’s. He feels a little babyish like this, but he doesn’t care. Not when he can feel the heavy, comforting weight of Dean all around him, and he can nuzzle into Dean’s shoulder and rest a hand over his brother’s heart and hear it as proof he’s still there.

“You’re such a dork.” Dean sounds gentle, and it makes Sam want to burrow further into his arms. He hates feeling so fragile, but he does, and Dean’s the only one who can make it any better. “What would you do without me, huh?”

Sam is used to masking. He’s used to getting his body to do everything he wants. But it seems puberty and growing taller has resulted in a series of cracks across his self control, and he can’t contain the flinch. He tries to recover it by laughing, but it sounds empty even to his ears.

“Burn. Crash and burn.” His reply wasn’t meant to sound quite so earth-shatteringly honest, but he’s said it now. And he can’t stop shaking, tears welling up inside him. This whirlwind roller-coaster is so different to the one he’s used to riding, and he despises how weak it makes him. He clings to Dean anyway. “Please don’t leave.” He whispers it to hide the emotion in his voice, like it’s not obvious he’s upset.

“Hey, hey, Sammy, don’t - I didn’t mean - God, Sammy, why in the hell would you think I’m leaving?” Dean’s alarmed - not exactly scared of Sam, though, and that’s all the permission his petulant emotions need to sweep him up. Sam wraps his arms around Dean and clings as hard as he possibly can.

“You’re eighteen, Dean. It’s not like you get anything out of this life other than saving people. You don’t need the violence like I do. You could hunt on your own, get all the same perks, just as easy. You don’t need to stay anymore.” He feels stripped bare, flayed apart by Dean’s presence. It’s always like this. Dean, the one person he can be open with. 

Except this time it hurts because for the first time since he realised he could drop his mask around Dean, he feels truly vulnerable and dependent. Those are things he likes on Dean, not on himself. He feels like how maybe an addict feels when their supply is threatened. Needy, clingy, and lost.

“Of course I need to stay!” Dean sounds almost angry this time, and for some bizarre reason its soothing. “Sam, Hell itself wouldn’t drag me away from you when you need me. Don’t you remember what I told you, on my birthday?”

“I remember-” Sam hesitates, because he’s not sure how to say that he remembers terrifying Dean by admitting he wants to kiss him, and then them collectively deciding to move on as if it didn’t happen and pretend all that happened was him giving Dean a knife. “You liked the knife?” He’s not sure what Dean’s driving at, here. He’s not really sure of anything right now, and that feeling is only tolerable because he’s with Dean.

“I said I’d give you anything, Sammy. That I was yours and you can own me, but you couldn’t have...what you asked for. Not yet. The one thing I won’t give Sammy. Anything else, I’ll let you have. I meant that. I mean it now. Always will.” Sam feels Dean nudging at him, and he looks up to meet his earnest green eyes. “Always, Sammy. You hear me?” The depth of truth in his promise is staggering.

“Dean.” Sam tries to say something else, anything, but all he can do is repeat his brother’s name, stuck like a record because there’s nothing, no words that can encompass what this means to him. 

They’ve talked around it, before. The idea of Dean turning eighteen and getting legal guardianship of Sam. But they can’t - to do that they’d need documents and to engage with law enforcement way more often than they’d like, especially because it would mean they’re on the cop’s radar, and inevitably Dean would end up wanted for child abduction because John would fight it with everything he’s got. When Sam brought it up, Dean got that shadow again, and after a while Sam stopped trying to talk to him about finding ways around it, because there’s hurting Dean and then there’s  _ hurting _ Dean, and this topic almost always crossed that line.

“Dean, Dean, Dean-” Sam breaks off, strangling the name in his throat and pressing his forehead on to Dean’s shoulder. He breathes in the whiskey and leather and cheap stolen pine-scented cologne, the hint of skin and sweat underneath it, and it’s deeply grounding. He feels himself settle into his bones, in a way he hasn’t been able to for what seems like aeons. “Dean.” He feels helpless again, but this time it’s a nicer kind. It’s got a tilt of want, of seeking reassurance but knowing it’s there to be found. Knowing  _ Dean _ is there to be found.

“Shhh, Sammy, it’s okay.” Dean’s voice is low, and it rumbles in his chest. Sam feels it against his hand.

“I’m sorry.” Sam finally manages to break past the block on other words, and he almost sobs in relief. “I just - I thought you would leave. I know you’d stay for me, I know it, but there’s knowing and there’s actually feeling it, because everything in my body right now is so fucking stupid! How the hell did you survive this growing up crap?”

“Honestly?” Dean murmurs, and Sam can feel the shadow creeping in. “‘Cause all my growing up happened too damn fast for me to be able to get a shot at saying no to any of it. I was grown up before I knew what the fuck growing up meant. Not like you. Thank fuck, not like you.” Dean grips at Sam, and it feels bruisingly tight, but Sam doesn’t complain. He never does when Dean talks like this. 

He knows there’s a vast gulf in his understanding, and he also knows that Dean is desperate to keep him from crossing it. That Dean’s bone-deep horrified that Sam might know. And for now, that’s enough to keep Sam’s curiosity from trying to build a bridge. He has inklings, guesses. But he doesn’t examine them. Because Dean’s right. He doesn’t feel old enough, or ready enough, to think about what some of what this implies would mean. So he lets it rest.

“I love you, Dean.” Sam doesn’t mean to say it, but Dean bows down and kisses him on the crown of his head, so he can’t regret it.

“I love you too. Even if you’re a hormonal, dork-ass idiot of a little brother.” Dean’s banishing the shadow with his older-brother act, and Sam’s grateful for it. He still elbows Dean for insulting him, though. It’s only right.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.” Dean replies on autopilot, a smile in his voice. Sam loves the sound of Dean smiling.

For a moment, they stay like that, limbs tangled around each other. The night has eclipsed the sky now, and one of the few benefits to driving around constantly is that they regularly end up in the ass end of nowhere, and the stars hang clear as crystal.

“Sammy?” Dean whispers, and it’s not his annoying-older-brother voice anymore.

“Yeah?” Sam feels strangely reluctant to break the silence.

“If you ever start forgetting, start getting worried I’m gonna leave, I want you to take a look at this.” Sam feels cold metal tapping against the back of his and, and he shifts so he can cup his palm. Dean lets the amulet he wears drop into it.

“It’s the necklace I gave you.” He whispers too, because somehow that feels right.

“I ain’t ever gonna take this off, okay?” Dean’s earnest again, and Sam can just about make out the way he’s biting his lip in the dim light. “I ever take this off? That’s when you’ll know it’s a damn shifter, or that I might be leaving. But I swear, I’ll never take it off voluntarily. Not while I’m still me.”

Sam nods slowly, entranced by the way the shiny metal reflects the stars and the porch light. He slides it a little on the cord it’s strung on, and sees Dean’s lips twitch at the corners, an almost-smile that’s as enchanting as the night sky.

“Ticklish?” Sam asks, a small smile emerging from his wrung-out state.

“Kinda. I can feel you playing with it, round my neck.” Dean explains, and sits back a little. Sam’s hand rises automatically as the cord pulls at the amulet, to keep it loose around Dean’s neck.

“Hmm.” Sam feels like he’s coming alive again. He’s not losing Dean. Dean’s here, with him, and he’s holding an amulet that tells him that he’s never going to leave. He tugs at the amulet, thoughtfully, making the cord go taught. Dean’s breath catches a little, and Sam laughs gently, delighted. “Feel that?”

Dean nods. His eyes are darkening, and he’s biting his lip again. He’s starting to go relaxed and giving, and it’s everything Sam needs wrapped up into one neat, Dean-shaped package.

Sam holds the amulet carefully, takes one of the sharp horns and lifts it, traces the pointy edge ever so delicately over Dean’s throat. If holding the cord taught gets to Dean, this seems to sink into him and latch on firmly, not just luring but  _ dragging _ Dean into that space where he’s so beautifully Sam’s. His breath is unsteady, catching in a quiet whine than Sam aches to kiss away. 

Instead he just traces the sharp edge of it down Dean’s throat, over his skin and all the way down to his sternum. He pulls it away from Dean’s chest, tugging sharply so it makes Dean shift forward or have the cord bite into his neck. Dean’s eyes flutter in pleasure, and he leans into the cord. He looks overwhelmed, and Sam releases the pressure, pushing the amulet back against Dean’s chest, right over his heart. One of Dean’s hands comes up to press the amulet and Sam’s hand against him, like he wants to get Sam to keep going, to reach inside and let him wear the amulet in his flesh and blood heart. The edges of Sam’s nails bite a little into Dean’s chest, and all it does is make Dean’s lips part like he’s hungry for more.

“Yours, Sammy.” He sounds broken open, delicious and wonderful and so completely devoted. Sam grabs Dean’s hair and tugs because if he doesn’t he’s going to kiss him. He’s finally out of the deep, unsettled pit of despondency and he needs sensation like he needs air. Dean’s body under his is warm and his, and it’s everything, the power rushing through his veins and making him almost dizzy. He kisses Dean’s forehead, then presses his forehead to Dean’s, tasting the air between them and yearning to taste Dean’s lips. The agony of denial almost tastes sweet, now he knows Dean wants to be his, fully and entirely.

“Mine.” Sam growls, clenches his fist tighter around the amulet and Dean’s hair and drinks in Dean’s soft sigh, how he nods his head just a little in affirmation.

“Yours, Sammy.” Dean repeats, his words weak, slurring together a little.

Sam holds Dean still a little while longer, then relinquishes his tight grip, flexes his hands because they ache from holding on so hard. Dean wraps his arms around Sam again, and Sam lets Dean hug him, lets Dean pick him up like he’s still tiny and carry him inside.

Sam falls asleep still wrapped up in Dean.


	5. Fifteen

“I told you you’d regret hurting him.” Sam grins, the hilt of his knife slick with blood. He laughs, drags the man roughly into a chair with the strength of someone possessed utterly with intent.

“You might have killed my lackeys, boy, but there’s a world of difference between heart of the moment and cold-blooded torture.” The man grunts as Sam ties him up, and he viciously cinches the zip-ties tighter until they bite into the man’s flesh.

“I know.” Sam’s still behind the man, wants to destabilise him.

“How old are you? Twelve?” The man’s not taking him seriously, which is something Sam would want to punish even if he hadn’t hurt Dean.

“Fifteen.” He doesn’t bother masking his tone; he wants this man scared.

“You can stop trying to sound like a hardass, kid. Yeah, I hurt your damn brother. I didn’t think I’d get baby fucking mama-bear coming after me for it! I chose the wrong guy to abduct, I get it. But we both know you won’t have the stomach for hurting me, so let’s get to the part where you leave.” The man is still projecting confidence, but behind it Sam can feel his growing concern.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Sam takes the man’s neck in one hand, leaving a bloody thumbprint on his skin as he runs the knife lightly over his throat, just enough to make it bead with blood. He lets go and backs off, waits to see if it made an impression.

“Jesus Christ!” The man sounds shaken now, and Sam laughs again.

“I think we can both agree that Jesus has fuck all to do with this.” Sam reaches down, knife still held in his fist, as he grabs the man’s wrists and wrenches upwards, forcing the man to involuntarily double over. He pushes further and delights in the scream of agony. He wrenches the arms back down and uses some cord to tie his wrists to the back of the chair.

“The hell’s doing this? What psycho are you hanging out with, kid?” The man’s voice is rough with pain, and disbelief.

“Oh, this is still me.” Sam trails a hand over the man’s shoulder, digging in as he moves around the chair and into his line of sight. He smiles, turning on his full dimpled sweetness. “I’m the psycho.”

“What the-” Sam cuts the man off by letting his smile turn into a wider one, more a baring of his teeth than anything else as he lunges, drives the knife deep into his shoulder and  _ twists _ .

Sam yells with the man, laughs as his cry fades, exhilaration thrumming through him.

“Yes, please, yell louder. I really,  _ really _ love it when I know it hurts.” Sam feels the man’s horror, and it's incredible, coursing through him like his own personal drug supply.

“Why are you doing this?!” The man whimpers, and Sam grabs his hair and pulls the knife out, runs it messily across his collar-bone, watching the blade part flesh hungrily.

“Weren’t you paying attention?” Sam taps the cut with the flat of the blade and steadies the chair at the full-body flinch that ensues. “You hurt my brother. You drugged his drink and took him here. You hurt him. I’m the only one who gets to do anything like that to Dean. I’m the only one he  _ wants _ that from. He’s  _ mine _ , and you don’t get to come in and take him.” He stabs the knife down into flesh again, and leans in closer to breathe in his screams.

“Right about now, you’re realising how badly you’ve fucked up. But you still don’t quite get how much worse this is going to get.” Sam takes some blood from the stab wound and smears it across the man’s cheek like it’s warpaint. “You didn’t figure on my brother being already taken by someone more screwed up than you are. Congratulations. From one killer to another, though, I get why you wanted Dean. He’s gorgeous.” Sam knows exactly how stupid a monologue is, but he can’t bring himself to care about the cliche when he’s got this man in his grasp.

“Yeah?” His eyes are glazed with pain, and Sam drags the knife slowly across his throat again just to watch the blood gather there. Not hard enough to kill, not yet.

“I know my brother. He was probably drunk, right? Drunk, and asking for it with his every move. There’s something about him that just screams out for domination, don’t you think?” Sam idly carves into the man’s chest, and takes the cry of pain for agreement. “It’s like he wants to be hurt, looking like he does. Flaunting his cocky smile that’s just begging to be taken down a peg. Biting his own lips like a fucking tease, because someone should be biting his lips for him.” Sam presses his forearm into the man’s throat, just to make the cuts flare and to watch him struggle for air.

“I won’t touch him again, I swear! He’s yours!” The man chokes out the words, and Sam releases his grip.

“Damn right you won’t.” Sam yanks on the man’s hair, edge of the blade in his hand thunking against the man’s scalp as he leans in and licks the fear off his jaw. “You’re a monster.” His lips twist into a victorious smirk. “Me and my brother? We kill monsters.”   
  
Sam stabs the man deep in his stomach, and rips along until he’s bleeding so fast it begins to pool on the concrete floor, starts seeping into the tread of his boots.

The man’s making strange, choking sounds, his breath rattling in his lungs, rasping for life, and Sam looks at him in disgust.

“Just fucking  _ die _ already.” He grips the man’s head in his hands and snaps it to the side. His neck cracks shockingly easily.

He takes the man’s own gasoline and lighter, drenches the body and chair, and burns it all up, even the plastic gallon.

He tosses the knife in the flames for good measure, and then he heads outside, to where his brother’s waiting propped against a wall.

“Sammy? You ok?” Dean’s still clumsy with the drugs, and he’s got a few cuts on his torso, but other than that he’s just like always.

“Yeah.” Sam carefully helps Dean up, wraps an arm around his waist possessively, and tries to ignore Dean’s sharp look, when he sees the blood Sam’s covered in.

“Christ, Sammy. Is that yours? What the fuck happened in there?” Dean pushes Sam back a little, scans him over for injuries, and Sam patiently lets him.

“I’m fine, Dean. It’s all from the man that took you.” Sam explains, and he feels himself calm down further when all that sentence does is make Dean relax more.

“When you went back in, I was expecting to hear a gunshot.” Dean looks like the admission hurts him. Of course, he’s still stuck on the notion that they shouldn’t kill humans.

“He was a monster. He t _ ook you from me _ , Dean.” Sam feels the anger rise in him again, and he has to turn aside to restrain the urge to shove Dean up against the wall and fuck him into incoherence to re-stake his claim. “Son of a bitch didn’t deserve to survive that, and he sure as Hell didn’t deserve to go out easy either.”

Dean looks uncertain, conflicted, and Sam wants to be able to soothe that away, wipe their slate clean again. But it’s done, and he’s not sorry, and Dean isn’t disgusted or scared, just unsure. The lack of certainty hurts. But this is Dean. He’s always found it harder to be cold about killing, for all that he’s skilled at it, for all that Sam’s true face is one he can still be devoted to.

“I’m not sorry.” Sam says, resolutely. “I’m glad I killed him. He was just as much of a monster as any creature we’ve killed. Probably even got a higher kill count than half of them.” Sam bites his lip. “He’s the kind of pathetic, low-level murderer I’d be if I didn’t have monsters to hurt. If I didn’t have you.”

“Sammy, you’re nothing like him!” Dean looks genuinely shocked, which almost makes Sam laugh. He doesn’t because he hadn’t meant to say that last sentence and he’s taken aback by how true it is.

“How do you know, Dean?” They should be leaving, the building is well on its way to being a beacon for the police, but Dean shakes his head and grips tight onto Sam’s wrist.

“Because you’ve only killed monsters, Sammy.” Dean is smiling at him, his expression full of wonder Sam doesn’t deserve. “And when I got scared, when I get scared? You stop.”

“Only for you.” Sam feels like he needs to convince Dean he isn’t what Dean thinks he is. Dean’s got this strange faith in his goodness, in his worthiness, and it’s so very far from right. He’s not exactly complaining, but it’s painful, sometimes, because his brother sees him and finds good where Sam only finds evil within himself.

“That’s just it. You think that, but it’s not true. You’ve never hurt anyone that isn’t a monster, or me. And you only hurt me when I want it.” Dean says this like it’s cold hard fact, and maybe Dean was the one who was just drugged and hurt, but Sam’s the one who’s shaken.

Because it’s true.

“Huh.” He stares at Dean, blinking slowly, until Dean rolls his eyes and tugs him to the Impala, presses the keys into Sam’s hands. The touch of the cool metal jerks Sam out of his reverie.

“Don’t tell me I just broke that overworked grapefruit of yours.” Dean winces as he pulls at the cuts on his chest when he tries to pat Sam bracingly on the shoulder. “Now drive. I’m still drugged to hell, and it’s best to not wait until we can actually hear the sirens, right?”

Sam clears his throat. “Right.”

They leave the burning building behind them and drive.


	6. Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam turns sixteen and discovers the shadow behind Dean, at last.

Sam really, truly hates posing as an intern.

It’s all he’s got behind him, and he’s using his height and his mask for all he’s worth, but just because it’s the best option he has doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Dean’s cuffed to the table in the observation room, and it takes all Sam has to stop himself from shattering the mirrored glass between them and wrenching the cuffs apart, storming the station and killing anyone who dared lay eyes on them, let alone lay a hand on Dean in arrest.

Instead, he pretends he cares about what the officer who agreed to supervise him has to say.

“This one’s gonna be rough. I can tell.” The officer looks torn between fascination and horror.

“Rough?” Sam tilts his head to the side, eyes flicking to the officer, who nods curtly.

“Look at him.” Sam looks. “Tell me what you see.” The officer is acting like this is some kind of hypothetical training exercise. The thought that someone so essential as Dean is simply a case study makes his skin crawl, makes him want to bare his teeth and rip, tear, destroy something, anything to combat the idea of Dean meaning anything less than everything.

Dean’s sat with his wrists out on the table, because of the cuffs. The metal would look gorgeous on him in any other circumstance. He’s tall, strong as ever, and his main concession to his captivity is that his sleeves are rolled up so they don’t catch on the chain.

“He’s calm.” Sam can’t help but smile a little. His brother, captured and trussed up for the police, and he’s even got the tiny crinkles near the corners of his eyes that tell him he’s suppressing a smirk. “He’s confident. He knows everything against him is circumstantial.”

Sam’s posing as a law student. He didn’t have to learn all the terminology, but once he starts learning he finds it almost impossible to stop, and it’s almost categorically going to be an asset, to know their rights, know how to bluff Dean out of arrest once he’s old enough to pass as an adult.

“Right. So, it’s gonna be rough.” The officer is eyeing him curiously, so he makes his eyes go wide, shifts on his feet a little, and for extra flavour bites his lip. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ve got something he doesn’t know we have. It’s gonna be fine.” The officer pats Sam’s shoulder reassuringly. All it does is make Sam want to take the blade strapped to his calf and carve off the fingers that touched the skin of his neck. Then he registers what was said, and he forgets all about his own need for personal space and violence.

“What do you mean?” He asks, sharper than he means to, because he has this sinking feeling in him, like he’s Cassandra and he knows he’s helpless. “What do we have on him?”

“You’ll see. Just watch.” The officer nods, and Sam watches, unable to tear his eyes away as another officer strides into the room to confront Dean.

“Hey!” Dean sits back in his chair, lounging in a carefully calculated way, his eyes flicking up and down the officer, deliberately inciting annoyance. “Where did the cop who cuffed me go? He and I kinda hand a thing going. You know,” Dean winks. “Kinky.”

The only way Sam manages to hold back his snort of amusement is by a combination of flaring jealousy and the uneasy dread slowly consuming him. The officer seems unruffled by Dean’s taunts. Unruffled is never good.

“Something in which you have no small experience, I’m sure.” The officer’s tone is sharp, and a little disgusted, and Sam can see the brief fluctuation, the brief dimming of Dean’s confidence before his mask comes right back into place, seamlessly.

“Damn right I do. Ain’t got this body just to be straight-laced. Ask anyone who likes dudes; I’m giving a public service. A true altruist, me.” Dean’s unsettled. He plays up the ego card when he doesn’t know how else to bait someone, and he needs them to cede control of the situation. Sam knows this and hates that he can’t do anything to help him.

“So that’s what they’re calling it now? A public service?” The officer snorts, derisively.

“Got something you wanna say about my sex life, officer? ‘Cause I gotta say, you can’t arrest me for liking it a bit rough.” Sam hopes the only reason Dean’s leer looks forced is that he knows him well.

“No, but we can arrest you for attempted murder.”   
  
“Well, this is just embarrassing.” Dean’s smirk this time is genuine. “Imagine how awkward it’ll be in the yard, when they ask me how many people I’ve killed. They’ll call me Zero for the rest of my life, like that poor kid in  _ Holes _ but worse.”

“Why did you try to kill Dr Sean?” The policeman’s face is stony, the reference failing to land.

“Sean Bean always dies; thought I’d help him fulfil the old prophecy.” Dean’s smile is magnetic, and Sam has to actively try, to stop himself from mirroring it. He flicks his gaze to the officer next to him, but he gets nothing from the man but expectant interest. Unsettling given Sam had momentarily felt Dean had taken back the power in the interrogation room.

“Why did you try to kill-”   
  
“Look, buddy.” Dean’s got his friendly-play face on now. Charming, a little coy. “All you got on me is circumstantial, and the man was hanging in a district that ain't exactly known for its safety. Wrong place, wrong time, thats me.”

“It might be circumstantial. But you see, Dean Winchester, you’re over eighteen now. You won’t get a cushy stint at some farmhouse. Not like last time.”

Dean’s smile freezes, and shatters.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Dean’s hunched over, like he wants to loom but can’t because of the cuffs, and his voice is the growl he gets when he’s trying not to scream. There’s fear in the back of his eyes, flashing bright, a white flag, and Sam’s eyes dart to the officer beside him, who’s grinning like everything’s just fine.

“What did he mean, last time?” Sam asks. Blood is rushing in his ears, an ocean of horror. He feels dizzy and sick and he can’t stay standing as the officer next to him dawns from pleased to concerned. As the speakers crackle out what he was never meant to know.

“We know about your little whoring business, Dean. We know you went to that farmhouse, and we know you went right back to your Dad - did you seduce him like you seduced the man you assaulted that night? Because the jury’ll know all about that this time, not like in minor court. And that, right there? Casts reasonable doubt.”

Static silence.

“Nothing to say now, huh. Don’t take it too hard. I reckon you’d still make a good dollar in orange.”

Sam’s vision is taken by red.

_ The officer rushes towards him as he falls, and suddenly, Sam’s just fine. He’s in a cold-pressed balance of rage and viciousness, and the knife goes through the policeman’s throat like so much butter. He’s into the room, the interrogator down as he slams Dean’s hand-made E-M pulse onto the table to wipe the tapes. He wrenches the keys from the man’s belt and unlocks Dean, doesn’t have enough space in his head to do anything but hope to hell that Dean’s not totally gone and will follow. _

_ Sam shoves Dean out the fire escape and locks the door shut behind him, leaving Dean to wait while he finishes the work. He paints a masterpiece in red. The night shift becomes a ghost crew, and then in the end he salts the floors and lights it up so the ghost crew can’t even be that. _

_ He finds Dean standing by the flaming door, and he grips his shirt, drags him into a run until they’re far enough away they can’t smell the smoke. They’re out of the station, and Dean’s leaning against the alley wall next to him. _

_ The red cools. _

Dean’s trembling, and Sam fumbles with the over-large buttons on his jacket before he drapes it over Dean’s shoulders. It’s a bad sign when all Dean does is grip at the cloth weakly.

Sam moves so he’s facing Dean. Green eyes stare blankly past him. They’re of a height now, Dean slumped just enough to make Sam feel taller, and his ears ring with the aftermath of what just happened. He reaches out to press his hand to Dean’s shoulder, and gets no response. 

“Dean.” He squeezes his shoulder. “Dean!” He repeats, urgently.

Nothing.

“Talk to me, man. Come on, don’t close down on me - you gotta keep it together for me.” Sam wants to keep it together, set a good example, but he’s grasping for an anchor that’s already unmoored.

“Dean, please!” He bites down a sob, because he can’t cry over this, can’t process this. This is all Dean’s and it’s not his sadness or his horror, it doesn’t belong to him and it shouldn't but he’s cringing with it anyway, thoughts whirling through his head like a hurricane of nightmares.

“Fuck you!” Sam grabs Dean’s shoulders and slams him against the wall, hard. “You can’t just shut down! Not now, not like this! Christ, Dean.” 

He wants to tear at the flesh of anyone else who touched his brother, to skewer the demons behind it and make them suffer. He wants to rage and shout and visit hell on them, and he’s so powerless he can’t stand it, because no matter what he does, what vengeance he takes, it won’t make a single difference. Because what happened has been and gone, and he’s left with a Dean who can be made a shell by something he had no chance to prevent.

Because he understands, now. He knows why thirteen-and-wanting was too young, and he knows why the smashed plates made Dean jump, and he knows the shadow with all the certainty of someone who wishes desperately that he didn’t know it. 

Because for one small, selfish moment he wants nothing more than to be ignorant again. To let Dean’s words be cryptic and go back to who he used to be, because he’s changed now. Grown more than he should in the wake of that intimate knowledge, only Dean grew up first and harsher -  _ too fucking young for that, too young, don’t - please - not like you - thank fuck not like you  _ \- and Sam can’t reach over that void, but maybe he can bridge it.

“You said you’d give me anything. Well, I’m calling that bluff. Give me this. Come on, man, please. I need you, Dean. I fucking need you to come back to me, you got it?” Sam presses himself closer to Dean, tries to project his frantic care through the air between them.

His scared, brown eyes catch green.

“Sammy?” Dean blinks, looks up at Sam. He’s all tense, like spring-wire, and then his eyes focus. “Shit, Sammy. I’m so fucking sorry.” He sags a little, hands clinging to the jacket and to Sam.

Abruptly, Sam notices how small, how fragile, Dean is. Sam’s not done growing, and he’s already tall as Dean, and getting broader with it. Dean still looks so very young. So very haunted. Sam forgets sometimes that neither of them are even old enough to drink.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Dean.” Sam curls his arms around his brother, hugs him fiercely, tightly, to his chest. After a moment, Dean clings back. He kisses Dean’s messy hair, and doesn’t let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back, finally! I am sorry to have been gone for so long. Life, and my mental health, made it difficult to continue. But I have a plan, and intend to finish this fic, though it may take a while!
> 
> Thank you for reading and not giving up on me! Comments, as ever, make me grateful and very happy!


	7. Seventeen

Sam’s only comfort is that Dean still doesn’t seem to hate him.

Through the chaotic memories of Dean following him, blank-faced, he recalls that he’d remembered to use the pulse to wipe out the security tapes. No witnesses, no crime - that’s what Dad always -

Here’s the thing.

Dean doesn’t seem to hate him.

But ever since that night, he’s felt untouchable.

Not in any real, concrete way. There’s the nearly-died hugs and the definitely-not-crying nights where Dean clings to him, and the buzz of intimacy when they move seamlessly as a unit, kill after kill piling the bodies of monsters behind them.

They walk and talk and act just the same, but the ever-present shadow is gone and in its place is something so brightly lit it’s turned dull with it. Like something in Dean just stopped once his Sammy found out.

Being powerless just makes him more violent, and he can’t connect to that clarity that took him before, it’s just as jumbled and disjointed as ever. He aches to grip Dean’s hair and kiss him, bite his lip and taste the metallic sing of blood, anything to bring Dean back from where he’s hovering, half-real. Even fantasies lose their shine. Dean’s been hurt so much, in ways so like Sam wants. The insecurity of years ago settles deeper into his heart.

Sometimes, at night, he sneaks out to find more kills. He comes back bloodied and bruised and it does nothing to cure the ache inside him. He thinks this is what growing up must feel like, and he has a new sympathy for those who choose to numb it. 

Like Dean does, even now. Goes out, gets drunk, comes back.

He hears them. He’s not stupid; he’s not a child anymore; he hears, and feels that urge simmering under his skin, just waiting to boil over. Dean, handing over money to Dad - to John. His wages. The faintest, muffled sounds, where unwanted pain overlaps with pleasure that makes Sam want to throw up.

The first time he really hears it, he does. Retches up bile and hates himself even more when Dean comes into their room and soothes him, rough hand on the back of Sam’s neck as their shaking hands share a glass of water. They sleep tangled together tightly, and Sam only ever goes out when John’s passed out drunk. His fingers twitch to his knife every time he passes the shadowed figure on the couch.

It’s bigger than emotion, this sensation, bigger than revenge or pain or love. It’s him scrambling for power, for control, for that thrill he can’t find anymore with Dean because there’s too much of everything else. He’s saturated with his life and only violence can scrape him clean. Bones snapping, silver bullets fired fast, unerring for all that he’s shaking apart from the inside out.

He feels like he’s cracking at the seams, even when he’s so twisted up in Dean he can barely breathe. His masks twist and bubble like paint in the heat, Munch and Dali making their mark on his facade until he feels like his projections are the same as himself.

Sometimes, when they’re hunting, or when they get up for breakfast and Sam’s making his food, John looks at him, and it’s like time holds still. Sam knows, and John knows he knows, and it’s a game of chicken that Sam’s got to struggle not to win. Dean’s hand brushes his arm, and he looks away. John nods, satisfied.

Sam hardly eats breakfast anymore.

At night, Dean rests his head against Sam’s shoulders, where he’s large enough, now, to make himself Dean’s protector. Sam chokes the words in his throat by kissing Dean’s forehead, tastes the bitterness of motel soap and unspoken pain. Dean’s arms wrap around him, holding his rapid-beating heart inside his ribcage when it threatens to break out. The air they share between them is warm, and Sam could let himself get drunk off that small intimacy, the whisper of Dean’s breath against his skin. Dean’s hands warm him through his thin sleeping shirt. Sometimes, Dean kisses Sam’s collarbone, sneaks his hands under Sam’s shirt and up his spine, and Sam would cry if it weren’t such a relief compared to their daily lives.

His confession spills out one night when Dean’s skin is cold and damp from the shower. It wasn’t even a particularly bad night, because when it’s one of those, Dean doesn’t make it to their bed alone, just stays in the shower until his skin is raw.

“I’m gonna kill him, Dean.” He whispers, hoarse with the unnameable forces that control everything about him, from his calculated planning to his instinctive compass.

“Not yet,” Dean’s fingers rub tiny circles into Sam’s skin, and he relaxes into it while he feels himself twist his fire deeper. A core of molten metal growing brighter and brighter, eclipsing everything but Dean. “We gotta stay together, Sammy. It’s the only way.”

Sam would do anything to keep Dean, to have him wrapped up and subsumed into Sam’s world. Where he could hold Dean tighter still, let Dean give like he always does, and take freely until they’re always the unit they are when they hunt. Where Dean kills and holds the monsters down like they’re offerings to Sam, and Sam repays him in blood spilled and fierce ownership.

He starts keeping a countdown programmed into his phone.

The numbers tick down the days until he hits eighteen, and they can be free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Apologies that this is a bit shorter than you might expect, and less of the more light-hearted style tension from earlier. I hope it is still enjoyable in any case. I am hoping that the next chapter will be the last, and that it will hit notes from all the chapters, as a sort of summary and conclusion. Thank you so much for reading and I will do my best to not disappoint you all! <3

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this is enjoyable! If you like it please let me know in the comments, because I pretty much live for the thrill of validation! Thank you for reading. I'm new to this fandom and writing this stuff so be gentle with me!


End file.
